Frank’s passed out in a puddle
and a pile of dog shit.
He’s not drunk.
He has cancer and seizures.
It’s 37 degrees
with deepening fog.
Last time I found him,
he was vomiting
blood and bile for an hour.
Frank. You all right?
Frank!
Frank! Did you fall?
He jerks awake.
“Huh.. Who?
Are you the police?”
Yup.
“Gunny, reporting for duty, sir.”
He raises his arm
for a fist bump.
I knock knuckles.
He tries to rise.
His legs don’t work.
His legs should work.
My cover calls
for Code 3 medical.
Frank fights to stand.
Frank lie still.
Your legs aren’t working for a reason.
Don’t make it worse.
He tries anyways.
“I’m stubborn, sir, and I don’t
like lying in dog shit!”
I pull him out of the pile,
find his glasses, sit him up,
and wait for medical.
We had a guy with Huntington's Disease who was repeatedly phoned in as intoxicated. He would move on if you asked him nicely, but you could literally go ten minutes sometimes before his new place to sit and do nothing would call. This post reminds me we haven't heard of him for months. I hope he's alright.
Posted by: Applican't | November 16, 2011 at 08:24 PM
Seizures are incredibly disorienting, some people become violent right after... then the brain "resets" and full functionality takes a while to return. It would be easy for someone to assume he was drunk or on drugs. Does he have a medical bracelet or something to explain his condition in case someone else finds him?
Posted by: Jade | November 17, 2011 at 10:42 AM
No. He is too proud.
Posted by: RD | November 17, 2011 at 12:07 PM